All Too Soon
by The-Rose-Has-Wilted
Summary: Draco is a veela, Ron is his mate. But life is never that simple. No matter how preordained things may seem, you still need to find your own way. Further summary within.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

So this is my new story. I don't know what to say besides the basics. This is a veela fic. It will probably be a slow-burner. Probably a bit dark and angsty. This is also going to be Ron/Draco. You know, slash. Probably Mpreg, though not certainly and not for a while. If any of these things do not float your boat, you have been warned.

I'm kind of making this up as I go along. I make no promises, but I hope it will be enjoyable for y'all, fair readers. It will be largely compliant with through DH, so spoilers will occur. I may take some liberties as I see fit, and we're all just gonna pretend that little "Epilogue" at the end of DH never happened, capisce?

I also claim no ownership of the characters in this work, unless I happen to make some up. But feel free to use those too. It's all like, whatever, man.

...

He awoke, startled.

Outside, the late stars hung in the sky, with a half moon slung lazy and phosphorescent over the honeysuckle. Perhaps now and again the wind might flutter the grass gently Perhaps now and again an insect fluttered out into the sky, crossing the face of that white, low moon, silhouetted or a moment and then lost again to the infinite darkness.

The sheets clung to him, sticky with the ever-present heat and the lingering sweet wetness of late August, the kind of wetness that thickened the air. His heart beat in his head. To startle in such weather; well, one must take note of such things.

It was the eve of the boy's birthday. He would be turning seventeen. He propped himself on one elbow, ignoring the creaks of the mattress, to gaze out a window with curtains drawn to that big moon. Something sat in his stomach, a heavy, unmoving weight of unease. How he slept at all, after the war, was anyone's guess.

Perhaps some demon waited outside his door. Perhaps some dementor clung below the windowsill. If he could hear it's breathing, he would know. But no; all was quiet. Except for the crickets every now and again, all was quiet.

Draco allowed himself to settle again, having looked his fill at the slow darkness. Spread-eagle on the bed, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if willing himself back towards sleep. But no; he was awake for good now. He gazed around the room.

The mansion seemed much larger now that his father was gone.

Out to Azkaban. Not that he didn't deserve it.

He lifted his left arm slowly, and rubbed at the scars on his chest, left over from the time Potter attacked him with that curse in the bathroom; it had never fully healed. He remembered Severus telling him just how lucky he was to be alive. Another thirty seconds and he would've lost too much blood. He would have shuddered at the thought, but Draco had come at least that close to death too many times to count since then. He wasn't used to the idea; no one is ever used to the idea, but it failed to surprise him anymore. Still, when those scars ached, their long pink lines sinking teeth into his body, he couldn't help but think of dying.

Over in the corner of the room, next to the fireplace with it's grate drawn shut, unused for five months straight, sat his trunk. It had once belonged to his great-grandfather. Imbued with the magic of changing hands so many times, it had almost taken on a little bit of each of its former owners in the way it stood, in the way the clasp at the far left stuck every now and again. Now it was full with school belongings.

Another year. He couldn't believe that he would be going back for another year. He sighed and half rolled over, dragging the blankets with him. Another year before he could get his diploma and move the bloody hell on. Another year with bloody Potter, the boy who, as it turns out, DID live. Well, no one could have predicted THAT. He let out a petulant huff towards nothing in particular.

Draco thought a lot about the war nowadays. After all the sacrifices, what did it get him? A father in prison, five or ten good scars, three dead friends, uncountable enemies, and another damn year to go. He let out a bitter breath he had been holding into the sticky air. Part of him couldn't care anymore. He would go back, he supposed, but the excitement was gone.

Not that he wouldn't be in good company. When Hogwarts sent out offers for an eighth year, Draco half-expected that no one would be dumb enough to do it. As it turns out, a good three quarters of students, or those who could afford it, were making the extra lap around the track. Of course, when the news broke, the first one the press ran to was the Golden Boy, avec entourage. He said it would be nice to finally have an uninterrupted year of school.

When he read it in the paper, Draco had not laughed. Of course. He had been hoping against hope for a Potter-free year, even if he knew the likelihood was practically nil. The hope was dashed upon the rocks the moment the article came out. Draco sighed again, in remembrance.

He rolled his wrist. Yep. There was that ache that came in hot weather. He couldn't believe it, at seventeen, he had chronic pain. Shaking his wrist in anger, he felt himself frown. All that blood, all that struggle for the Dark Lord, just to turn tail on him in the end. Draco had never sworn allegiance to that man, but he couldn't say he had fought all that hard against him, either. Not until the end, not until it was his own and his mother's life on the line. But that was the thing about a war; it wraps everyone up in it, no matter what.

Enough! He was done clawing at himself for all those old wrongs. At least, he was done for the night. Tomorrow night, again the old wounds would come back, to fill his throat with bile, to fill the backs of his eyes with that slow, creeping terror of the night. But that was tomorrow night. It would come when it wished.

With nothing left to think about, his thoughts returned to the weight in his stomach. It felt to be growing, gaining mass at a crawling pace. He rolled over again, and closed his eyes, counting backwards from ten, willing himself towards sleep. And slowly, its haze descended, and he was whisked away into the unquiet darkness.

. . .

He was burning up when he awoke. Putting the back of his hand, he almost gasped at the temperature. His joints ached, and each movement felt tied down by a thousand little pains. He licked his dry lips, and with an effort like never before, he lifted his head from his pillow. The light shone through his open window, creating four patches of light that stretched over the middle of his four-poster. Stomach pains came and went at random. He clenched, afraid to move when they came, and moved again only once they had passed.

He heard a knock at his door, and it rang loud in his head. With effort, he moved his parched lips.

"Come in."

Narcissa Malfoy pushed open the door with hesitancy, and slid her body through the entrance once it was wide enough to permit her. Slowly, she turned to face him, her hand held together over her waist. Aside from a string of pearls around her neck and a simple white sleeping gown, she bore no pretense of the wealth that had encompassed her life since the day she was born.

"Is it that bad?" She asked.

Draco could only nod.

"Oh my son," she began, and her voice faltered. Bringing a fist to her mouth as if about to bite her finger, she stood very still for a moment before continuing.

"I should have told you long ago."

With that, she walked towards his bed and sat herself on the edge, running a hand through her son's damp hair. He tried to shake his head and let out a muffled groan of protest and eventually, he choked out a few words.

"I don't want to get you sick."

Narcissa chuckled, but her eyes were shining.

"Oh my dear, you won't get me sick. I promise."

She looked over her shoulder, almost longingly toward the door, but there was no one beyond it and she knew. Eventually, she sighed, and looked back at her son. He let out a strangled sort of moan. As if anticipating the question, she spoke.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you. You must ride this out. Once it's over, you will be glad."

He looked at her with dazed eyes. How he could ever be happy for this, he did not know. The aches were only growing now, and his bones felt heavier than stone in his body. His fever broke every now and then, while he had cold sweats, and then returned. And moreover, an aching had settled in his heart, he tried not to think about that feeling, growing worse as the moments passed, for thinking made his sluggish brain want to panic. After what felt like hours of his mother's hand upon his forehead, she began to speak again.

"You know that your father and I have always told you that you are special."

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at her.

"I have not lied to you, Draco. You are special indeed."

She moved her hand down to pat his shoulder through the blanket that rested upon it.

"Do you remember seeing the veela at the Quidditch World Cup?"

His eyebrows furrowed, but Draco nodded his head, His thoughts would not move in his brain! She was alluding to something, but he could not understand what or why.

"Those girls?" he choked out.

"Yes," she said, as she continued to massage his shoulder. He grunted, and with a great effort, rolled over on his back. She massaged his back, now with both hands, and he let out a sigh of relief. The touch of his mother erased some of the ache that had found its way into his body.

"They aren't just girls, though. Veela can be of either gender."

"I don't. . ." he began to protest, but she cut him off before he finished a sentence.

"Hush, my dragon, and hear all of what I have to say." She paused again, collecting herself, before she spoke again. "These veela, they have interbred with wizards for centuries. Those girls at the games had no wizard blood in them, but most veela living today are also wizards or witches."

Draco's head was still fuzzy, and it did not appreciate the history lesson. The aches in his body were only intensifying as they spoke. And his mothers own hands, though gentle, seemed to be almost slightly itchy against his skin. He shivered involuntarily when she pressed down now.

"I tell you this because of a secret that has been held by your father from you. The Malfoy family line has veela blood."

"What?" Draco spluttered out. "But we are purebloods!"

"For centuries, society did not consider the presence of veela blood to be an impurity. Only in the time of the Dark Lord did it become something even the purest of wizards came to revile."

"But. . ."

"Hush my dear, I must finish and I haven't much time." She continued to massage him, but the little pricks her fingers left were becoming worse and worse. The aches in his body grew, along with the ache in his heart. She spoke again.

"The Black line has veela blood as well. We have never wavered in our pride of that fact. " She paused, and the space grew until Draco gazed up at her. There was an all-consuming fire in her eyes. She looked at him fiercely, and, finding his hands under the blankets, she gripped them with a force that was almost crushing. "You must understand that having such blood is not shameful. It is only your father who thought so of it, and he was wrong."

"Why are you saying this?" Draco felt his head spinning.

"I tell you because you, my son, are a veela."

A silence hung in the air. Then Draco spluttered again.

"But that, that's impossible! You and Father were not veelas! How could I be one?"

Narcissa smiled almost wistfully. "That is not how it works. The veela . . . condition, for lack of a better word, is a recessive trait."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that, in order to be a veela, one must receive the trait from both your mother and father. Both myself and your father had only one veela gene, and we are only carriers. But you, our son, you are different."

Draco's thoughts were whirring now.

"So that means?"

"It means that you will become a veela in full, now that you are growing. Veela gain their true form when they reach their inheritance. This happens at a veela's seventeenth birthday. That is, for you, today."

Her hands on his back were becoming intolerable. He tried to shift away from her, and she slowly withdrew her hands from him.

"I see it has started already." There were tears in her eyes. "After your transformation, I will no longer be able to touch you, now will anyone else. Not until you have found your mate. And I'm afraid I have dawdled so long, I have missed the opportunity to hug my only son once more before he becomes a man."

Draco heard her voice warble at the end, and there was a pang in his half-gone heart. He dragged himself from the bed, and, once sitting, held out shivering arms. "Mother," he began. ""I would be honored."

She didn't waste a second, but enveloped him in a hug. The pricks throughout his body made him wince, but he grimaced into her shoulder. He felt the wetness of her tears fall onto his arm. "Thank you." She spoke. "Thank you. My son," she pulled away, "you will make a fine young man." She smiled through her tears at him. He smiled back.

Wiping her eyes with her index fingers, she threw her hair back from her face in one sweeping gesture. Draco sank back into his bed. Only now could he contemplate what she had told him.

"My mate?"

"Yes," she said, still wiping at her eyes. "Veela are creatures of love. They have chosen mates, soulmates. One who is perfect for you, my Draco."

"How will I know?"

"It is said that veela have always known by smell, by sight, and by touch the identity of their mates. He will be the only one who can touch you at first, until you have bonded with him."

Draco flushed. "How do you know it's a him?"

She smiled again. "You shivered when I put my arms around you. That can only mean that you will be, for lack of a better term, submissive. And no submissive male veela has ever been born with a female mate."

Draco was flushing even in his fever. Submissive? He felt a lurch in his heart, but his head was too fogged to be able to process much of anything. She saw and there was the pain in her eyes again. "it is nothing to be ashamed of, my Dragon. A veela will love who he loves, and there can never be anything wrong with that."

"How do you know all this?"

Again she chuckled, but Draco sensed the bitterness. "It used to be, every pureblood family told the stories of the veelas, taught them to their children, and, if they were supremely lucky, cherished the veela blood that ran in theirs. It has only been in your own generation that such stories ended." She looked aver her shoulder again. "And there are always books."

"Do not think," she added with a smirk, "that your father prevented me from reading what ever I chose."

She stood from the side of his bed, and Draco felt the panic set in. There was too much he didn't know, and too much that sacred him silly. "Don't go!" and his voice broke.

She turned back to him. "I was only standing," she reassured him. "I have collected all the worthy books in this house on the subject. I suggest that, as soon as you are able, you read them."

"This ache I have, is it because of. . . my mate?" The word felt funny in his mouth, but just saying it sent trills of warmth down to his fingertips.

"The ache of the body will subside after you have transitioned to you true form. The ache in your heart," she paused. 'I'm afraid that will only subside once you have found your mate."

Draco let his head fall back on the pillow and let a long, ragged breath out of his mouth. He didn't know if he could stand it, this feeling of being split in half from the heart. Not for very long, anyway.

"But my mate, he could be anywhere! How many billions of men are there in the world!"

Narcissa shook her head. "The fates have never been so cruel."

Draco shook his head to himself. The fates certainly didn't seem to mind screwing HIM over personally, so he didn't see why they should stop any time soon. He ran a hand through his hair, which was still sticking to his forehead. Instead, his thoughts turned to the coming day.

"Will it get worse?"

Narcissa nodded her head gravely. 'I'm afraid so. You have not even begun the physical changes yet. They will likely last for the next ten to twelve hours at least. And then, you will come into the full range of your magic."

"The full range?"

"Yes. As a veela comes of age, he gains the full stores of his capabilities. Some of these are physical. . ."

"Such as?"

"Your appearance will change. You may find yourself casting balls of fire at will when angry. There will be other changes, but. . ." She paused. "There will be time to speak of these things tomorrow. I can see the transformation is taking greater hold of you. There will not be much time before it completely takes control."

He stuck out a hand as he felt his body lurching from his own control. "Stay? Please?"

She was crying again. "I'm afraid I cannot stay. The transformation must take place alone. No other magic can risk interfering with it. But oh, my dragon, if you only knew how much I wished I could stay." Her voice was shaking again. "I promise you, it will only last a little while. Before you know it, you will be as you were always meant to be."

Draco could only nod his head. He was thunderstruck, and for a moment, even his fear had been blown from his body. She stood, a distance from him, with her arms wrapped around her middle, as if trying to hold herself together. Her face gleamed with wetness. She turned to leave him, but stopped and stared at him with pleading eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. Steadying herself, she tried again.

"I am so sorry to have only told you now. I can give you no good reason, except that your father commanded that I never speak of it. I can only tell you that I love you with all of my heart, and I can only ask this: that one day, you can forgive me."

And with that, she was gone. It was only moments before Draco sunk into the whiteness of the change.

Draco awoke with a gasp in his throat and an ache in his heart. His fever was gone, and the pains in his body had left him, Groggily, he rubbed his eyes with his fists. Pushing back his sheets, he saw that it was early in the morning. The sun appeared through the window across the room, filling the room with glowing orange light.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood upon them, stretching and cricking his necks. Were it not for his heart, he felt better than ever. Slowly, he pulled himself from his stiff position and ambled towards the bathroom that adjacent to his bedroom. Pushing open the door, he drew himself a bath. As the tub filled with hot water, he gave a sigh of relief. Even in August, nothing felt better than a warm bath.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, he contemplated all that had happened just a day ago. Now he was seventeen. According to wizarding law, he was now an adult. He could now legally perform magic wherever and whenever he pleased, not that such rules had stopped him in the past. He gave a slight "hmm" of appreciation of his new position. So now he was a man. It didn't feel that different.

Not that he had ever felt like much of a man. He had always been relatively tall, though he had topped out at what he referred to as "a respectable five foot eight." It was bloody well taller than Potter, and that was all that mattered. But that height had never gained him any muscle mass, and he remained at best what might be called "svelte." The manliest thing he had ever procured was hair on his legs.

With that thought, he looked down at his legs. His mother had said to expect physical changes. Part of him hoped against hope that all of yesterday had been but a fever dream. Still, looking down, he almost gasped. His legs were now sparsely covered with short, almost invisible hairs, like peach fuzz. Bloody hell, it looked like he had shaved his legs! He stood and walked over to the full length mirror.

He kept his eyes squinted until he was standing in front of it. Throwing caution to the wind, he tore his t-shirt from his body, keeping his eyes screwed shut. If he was ugly now, he swore to Merlin, someone would have hell to pay!

He gave himself to the count of three to open his eyes. One. Two. Three!"

He opened his eyes and nearly fell to the ground in surprise. Changes, his bloody fucking ass! More like bloody continental SHIFTS! He stared at his reflection, mouth agape. The boy in front of him had the same milky skin, the same white-blond hair, the same grey eyes. But so much had changed. The boy in front of him was all curves where Draco knew himself to have angles. Much of the muscles in his shoulders and arms seemed to have melted, leaving them appearing softer and more delicate. Where as Draco's ribcage traveled in an almost straight line down to his hips, this boy's narrow waist blossomed out into the curve of healthy hips.

Even his bloody nipples seemed a little larger. They were definitely pinker and softer, and whatever semblance of chest hair Draco had once had was gone from this new boy's chest. This was just great. On the day he became a man, he seemed to lose his attributes to the same name.

Suddenly a fear filled his chest. What if? He was afraid to look. With a rallying breath, he pulled the band of his shorts from his body and looked down. He let out a powerful sigh of relief. Hips or not, a dick between the legs was a dick between the legs.

He returned his eyes to the mirror. The vision was not as shocking the second time, but he began to notice the smaller changes in his form. His face seemed slightly fuller now, correcting for any supposed pointiness in his features. His skin had always been clear, but it seemed even clearer now. His hair, thankfully, was unchanged.

It wasn't until he really examined his chest that he fell to his knees. Those scars over his heart, they had vanished some time in the night! He felt tears well in his eyes. No more pain! No longer an invalid. His chest was heaving with the sight of himself. He knelt before the mirror, smiling at himself in spite of the hot tears on his cheeks. He should have hated himself for such a brazen display of emotions, but all he felt was a deep and binding gratitude to the fates above him.

He felt water seep under his feet.

"Fuck!" he had forgotten to turn of the water. He rushed over and twisted the nob all the way off. Almost unthinkingly, he waved his hands over the water on the floor. It disappeared almost instantly. Huh. That brought a smirk to his face. He had never done wandless magic before. Maybe this veela thing wouldn't be too bad. He turned back to the mirror.

He sighed. He could get to the new look, he supposed. Now that he saw himself again, it wasn't bad. Not bad at all. In fact, had it not been him in the mirror, he would have found the bloke quite shaggable, thank you very much. He stood there for a few more minutes, making faces at himself, just to see what it looked like. It looked good.

He turned away, once he had his fill. Peeling his clothes from his body, he settled himself into the warm water and moaned in pleasure. All the little aches in his body began to leave him, as he grabbed some soap and began to go over his new body, exploring each and every inch.

His skin was much softer now, and his hands sliding over his chest felt almost buttery. Almost experimentally, he rubbed his legs together in the water. They felt silky as they slid against each other. Draco led his head roll back. Yes, he could most definitely get used to this. He brushed a hand over his nipple, and gasped aloud this time. They were much more sensitive now. Well, that was something to note.

Before long, his fingers were becoming wrinkled. He rose from the water, and accio'd a towel to his hands with neither word nor wand. Wrapping it around his waist, he stepped out of the bathtub and released the drain, stepping over to the sink. Walking by the mirror, his breath hitched.

He had a body one could get lost in. From the high alabaster cliffs of his collarbones down to the soft shores of his hips, he shone with a captivating beauty. His long, delicate arms were like the legs of a fawn taking young steps on the grass. Long slender legs took similarly hesitant steps upon the tile of the bathroom floor. So this was who he was always meant to be.

Before long, he entered his room, and put on a few old clothes. His jeans did not fit over his hips! He sighed in frustration before pulling on a pair of shorts with an elastic waist. They would do until he could go shopping. His shirts were too loose at the shoulders and kept riding up over his waist, but he could not be bothered.

Before long, there was a knock at his door.

"Come in, " he said, almost without thought.

Narcissa Malfoy entered the room and let out a small gasp, her hands brought to her lips. Draco did a slow twirl in front of her, with his arms stretched out. "What do you think?"

"Oh my son," she said, shaking her head. But there was a smile on her face. "You've never been so beautiful."

Draco bounded over to her and threw his arms around her but withdrew them almost immediately, wincing in pain. It was like he had been burned. "What?" he began, but could not continue. The hurt and confusion swirled in his grey eyes.

"Did you forget, my dragon, what I told you yesterday? You belong to your mate now, just as he belongs to you. Only he will be able to touch you until you have bonded with him."

Draco shakily nodded his head.

"But do not think that because I cannot reach out and touch you, that I love you any less. I have always loved you, with all my heart." She paused. "You will find love just like it for your mate."

"I'm not sure how I feel about all this."

"She nodded at him. "That's understandable, my dragon. You don't have to know just now. Give it time, and you will understand."

He looked off at the doorway over his mother's head, but said nothing. She followed his gaze for a moment, almost longingly. Nothing was beyond it but for an empty house. She sighed.

"Now, if you will follow me, dear, your education can truly begin."

Beckoning with her hand, she walked out of the room. Draco followed his mother, with a dazed look on his face. It was going to be a bumpy ride.

. . .

Author's note:

So there's part one, guys. Tell me what you think. Love letters, constructive criticism, hate mail, whatever you got. Reviewers are like candy; they make me happy. Also, they rot your teeth. . . wait.

OH. Important author thingie! Umm, in case you haven't noticed, a lot of people die in DH. I'm thinking I might pull an: "oh, so and so just LOOKED dead, at first glance," if you know what I mean (you know what I mean.) But I haven't decided whom should be saved. So I'm thinking, maybe a vote? Please note that this is only an IDEA, and it may not make its way into the plot.

I guess what I'm asking is, which of the deaths in DH (or hell, in all the books,) felt the most contrived? Which one was just a waste of a death? Well, dear readers, advise me!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:

So here we go. The same warnings apply. Enjoy.

. . .

Ron sank onto the couch with a sigh, putting his feet up on the coffee table. The dishes were done, people were out on the porch, and he had the living room to himself for the first time all day. He could hear the laughs through the door. The Weasley family was playing wizard snaps. After five straight losses in a row, he had bowed out. He popped a candy into his mouth and chewed with pleasure. Yup. It had been a good summer, the first one without you-know-who, the first one where he could do magic, the first one with an actual kinda-sorta girlfriend. And, with school starting in a week, he would be seeing that kinda-sorta girlfriend and his best friend a lot more.

He hadn't really been thinking of taking Hogwarts' offer of an eighth year and a diploma. I mean, what kind of idiot signs up for extra school? He figured if fighting in a civil war didn't give you the skills you needed to succeed in life, what did? Besides, would it have been that hard to find a job as a member of the golden trio? Not that Ron liked the idea of using his fame to get him places, but you gotta do what you gotta do. And if all else failed, there was always a standing offer for a job at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. It's not like he would have become some layabout. But his mother spent the summer hounding his heels about the importance of a degree, how she and her husband had not worked their fingers to the bone to give their children the opportunity to get a proper education for NOTHING, now did they? And Hermoine joined her soon after, as well as Ginny. What with that kind of pressure, who could have resisted? And, all in all, it wouldn't be too bad. Take a few easy classes, some quidditch, some snogging. The works. All the things his seventh year SHOULD have been, but for the bloody fucking war.

The deaths weighed heavy on him. He didn't think there would be a day when they didn't. But some days were better than others. Some days stung like needles, and other days just ached.

Ron sighed. He couldn't go a few hours without thinking about it. And once those images of the final battle came into his head, they would not leave him for hours. Image after image rolled before his eyes, and he heard the pained cries as if new again. That hollow ache would settle in his stomach and he contemplated how final that final goodbye was. How terribly, utterly gone. He would remember until he was heaving, sick to death with loss. He found himself lying on the floor, his eyes red and his throat raw; he never noticed his moans until after they happened.

He couldn't let himself sink that deep right now. Those moaning days were gone. In their place came a stony silence, so that each of his limbs felt like marble, and the spirit in his body shrank to just a shiver. His strength pooled around him on the floor, and all he could do was look at his hands, so heavy in his lap. He didn't cry anymore. There wasn't much left in him to cry about. Sometimes Ron wondered just how much of him got left behind on the castle floor on that fateful day, like a ghost, doomed to wonder without him for eternity.

Ginny spent days after the battle, letting those big, silent tears fall from her eyes. She made no noise, and she walked like a ghost. Even her hair barely had color. His mum walked from room to room, her eyes wide and disbelieving, wringing a rag in her hand, and stopping like she had forgotten something. His old dad, he would just sit and stare. And Ron, he went into the woods and he smashed stick after stick after stick into the dirt, over and over until he rubbed his hands raw. Some days he went from the morning until the stars were coming out and he heard his mother call his name, over and over, into the night.

But the summer, damnit, the summer was better. He refused to let it stay as evil as it meant to be, as low down and dark as his heart wanted it to be. They had played card games each night, playing them until someone could crack a smile, until someone could tell a joke again. And it was better. He could sit out on the grass, those late summer evenings, and sometimes if he closed his eyes, it was like there was nothing there in the whole world, and he had never felt a better feeling than that. He didn't feel that ache everyday anymore. And they were learning how to laugh again, the whole family!

Today had been one of the good days. It started with a bright sun on his face, and led to a good, healthy breakfast, and a day of work weeding and de-gnomeing the garden. Hard work, work in the dirt; that was the answer. And all these bloody years, he never knew what all that work was for. And he had a good lunch, and the food tasted like food again! And Ginny, he sat with her all afternoon, just reading pages from a book aloud, and he didn't even mind that it was one of her sappy romance novels. And tonight, he was sitting, popping candy. In a week, he would see his friends and Hermoine. Life was looking up, for once in so long, he had forgotten what it felt like.

He sighed. Still, he wasn't sure about a lot of things. What was it going to be like to see all those people again, knowing who each of them had lost, seeing so many of them fall around him? What could he say to half the people he knew? And all the slytherins, those who had turned "to the light" in the last moments? What would he say? Could he keep from spitting in their faces?

Then there was the whole Hermoine issue. He liked her. He was fairly certain he liked her. After all, it's not like there was anything wrong with her. The family liked her, and she was smart, and funny. Ok, well maybe not hilarious, but she was funny in a Hermoine-ish sort of way. So it's not like he had any reason not to like her. Everyone certainly THOUGHT he should like her. He huffed at no one in particular. And, she had plenty of other things going for her.

Ron thought that a lot of what kind of a man you are comes down to that fundamental question: boobs or butt? Now, with Hermoine, she didn't have the world's biggest you-know-whats, but Ron was fine with that. Because Ron was a butt kinda guy. And Hermoine had a nice behind, there was no question of that. Then there was the kissing and, let's be honest, a little more than kissing. Not much more, of course, because Hermoine wasn't "that kind of girl!" And the kissing had been, well, good, he supposed. Wet. Not as wet as Lavender, but still, sort of, wet. Wet was good, right?

And he had kissed her in a warzone, in the middle of the climactic battle! There was no going back after something like that! You can't just turn away and say, sorry, I'm having second thoughts (or third thoughts or fourth thoughts. . .). There are things one ought to keep to ones' self. It's not that Ron didn't want it to go anywhere, because he did. He sincerely wanted to love Hermoine. At least, he wanted to want to love Hermoine. And he did.

Mostly.

But the last time they were together, they walked hand in hand around the edge of the lake out front of Hogwarts. He felt the warmth in her fingers, the gentle way they felt when they were near each other. They were almost at the point where they would turn around; they reached the parting of the wildlife where a stone rested as a seat, which overlooked a quiet cove. And Ron thought to himself: it was going to be awfully hard to kiss her. He knew he was supposed to kiss her, he knew he SHOULD kiss her, but it had taken all his effort to kiss her that day on the battlefield. He didn't have enough energy. A part of him knew that if he told Hermoine this, she would understand, but he also knew that it would be cruel. So he kept his mouth shut. And when she leaned in hesitantly towards him, he let his lips brush the side of her cheek. He saw the hope fall from her eyes and he almost kicked himself for not doing right by her. On the walk home, he thought about trying to fix it, trying to kiss her right and good, but he could never get farther than a preemptive parting of the lips.

That night, he lay awake, his mind reeling. He couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself do it. And by the sinking in his chest, he knew that something wasn't right, and the rational part of him knew it never could be. Such a wide chasm had opened between them while they slumbered. For one day, he had awoken to see himself on one side, and the girl he had loved so, so far away on the other. Standing on that precipice, he had felt cold, colder than he had ever felt in his life.

He would try to fix things. Ron was not the type of man who ever gave up the goat, and he refused to let another flicker of life die out right under his nose. So when Hermoine came, he would embrace her, and let her know that, no matter what, they would get through this. He would move heaven and earth to feel the things he was supposed to feel. Because, after all, she deserved happiness, and so did he, and he would find it wherever he damn well pleased!

He put the bag of candies down on the table in front of him. It wasn't that he was full; he was never full. In fact, his appetite started to come back a month ago, and now he felt that ravenous, delicious hunger around mealtimes. His body missed the memo that six feet tall was good enough for him. Always tall, he now stood well over his father. The lankiness of his long limbs gave way to wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and quiet, confident muscles. His face, as freckled as ever, held more definition in the hollows of his cheeks. Though he felt he would never have any facial hair to speak of, he felt he certainly looked appropriately more mature. He was thankful for it.

Now, according to the world around him, he was a man, and he now had a man's burden. At least he looked the part. Some days he surprised himself with his own strength, with the springiness of his steps and the easiness of his movements. He felt his quickness and his agility grow, as if he could have done a million things if he wished, and he was only waiting for the inspiration. Even his magic felt stronger. Sometimes it coursed through his veins, pulsing with his heartbeat. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see its outline around his fingers. This strength, it filled him with a giddy happiness, but he couldn't mention it to anyone, just in case it was unusual. Ron figured it was high time something good happened to him, no strings attached.

He let his head lull back onto the cushion. The long day tired him out. He pressed a hand to his forehead, before letting it slide down his face haltingly. A yawn escaped his lips. Yep. He was exhausted. But upstairs was awfully far away. Sighing, then stretching, he swiveled on the couch to rest his head against the arm. Before he knew it, his eyes fluttered shut and he drifted away to the sound of distant twinkling laughter and the occasional snap and flicker of the cards in the night.

. . .

"I've collected all the books I'd recommend you read on the subject of your change," Said Narcissa, with a wave of her hand towards a table covered in books. Draco raised his eyebrows. Sure, he wanted to know more about himself, but that was a LOT of reading. Heh. Maybe he could outsource it to Granger. Heheh. That was pretty funny.

He shook himself back into focus. "I've read many of these myself." Narcissa motioned towards the chairs in the library to which they had come. Draco sat in one, and she sat in another, facing him. "Now," she began, with a sense of authority in her voice, "I figure this process will work best if you ask me questions, rather than me just talking endlessly."

He nodded, but already busy wracking his brains over their previous conversation. "You mentioned. . . other physical changes, that might happen to me?"

"Certainly. For one, and I'm afraid there is no simple way to say this, other than what I am about to do: you shall have the ability to sprout wings."

Other than raising his hand to his lips, Draco showed no obvious signs of shock; his breeding prevented him from reacting too boldly to any information, surprising or otherwise. Once he had collected himself, he spoke. "How?"

"Veela have magical wings, which they can produce or retract at will. Actually, this is a slight overstatement. But I will explain. You may have noticed this morning, two lines between your shoulder blades?"

Draco raised his eyebrows. It had never occurred to him to look at his own back. Reaching a hand over his shoulder, he felt under his skin and shuddered visibly when his fingers grazed the two slightly raised nubs. Apparently his wings were erogenous zones. He would have to keep that in mind. "Yes, I feel them."

"They mark the space from which your wings will sprout when you call them. However, your mate, by touching those nubs, will also be able to call out your wings. If this happens, you will not be able to retract them without the right touch from your mate."

Draco gulped. This did not sound good. He didn't like the sound of another person having so much control over his body. And what if his mate and he were not on good terms? His mate could do whatever he liked to him. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. Could his mate incapacitate him at will? There were too many easy ways for his partner to control him. An anger in his stomach rose to meet the fear. No, damnit! He was a Malfoy, a Black! He would not surrender so easily.

"So once I find my mate, what will happen?"

A smile bloomed on Narcissa's face. "Veela courtship is a wonderful thing. At first, the bond is created when you and your mate touch. Your mate must then accept you. A loving touch from your mate will activate. . . well, I will tell you in a moment. Then, the bond will be completed by, so to speak, making love." At this point, her face colored. Draco smiled just a bit at this, before he recalled what she had just said.

"What will my mate's loving touch activate?"

"It will," Narcissa paused. "Well, you should now, my dragon, that as a submissive male veela. . . The veela as a race are very family oriented. Little is more important to a veela than starting a family. Thus, children become a prime concern for veelas. And, nature in her infinite wisdom, has made it so that there is always a carrier in veela couples. Thus, submissive male veelas will, after the first touch from their mate, begin another set of physical changes that will result in. . ."

"In what?"

"In a womb."

That was too much.

"In a bloody WOMB?"

Narcissa winced. "Please Draco, do not cuss. It is so vulgar."

"No. No way is this happening! Why are we even sure that I'm a submissive? What if I'm actually the dominant? Shouldn't I be? I AM a Malfoy, after all?"

"Draco, dear, I've told you, there is nothing wrong with being submissive."

"But I don't WANT to be weak! I refuse to be a slave to anyone!"

Narcissa sighed. "Just because you are submissive does not mean you are weak."

Draco felt a desperate anger growing in him. "I'm NOT submissive!"

His mother just stared at him. Draco breathed hard. He was so angry he could not speak. Narcissa's face contracted into a frown of exasperation.

"Fine. You may believe what you wish for now, Draco, and you may play whatever role you like. But rest assured that once you meet your mate, fate will settle things. I will not fight you if you are determined to be stubborn."

Draco refused to look at her.

"I understand that this is a lot to take in at once, and for that I am sincerely sorry. But there is nothing to be done about it now."

"It's just," Draco began, but he could not continue. Something bubbled up in his throat and he almost let tears leak down his face. "I didn't as for this." He cursed the shake in his voice as he choked out the words.

Narcissa's face softened. "I know, my son. I know."

He sighed. He couldn't be angry with his mother, no matter how nice it would have felt. It wasn't her fault that fate had screwed him over yet again. But no matter; he had dealt with worse before.

A weak smile crossed her face. "Shall we continue?"

He nodded.

"After a womb is produced, it shall remain 'cold' until the mate has given it a loving touch, which indicates his readiness and agreement to have children. After that point, a veela is considered 'warmed.' The desire for children and the completion of the bond will become paramount. Time without one's mate will become almost physically painful. Usually," Narcissa continued, "the bonding process is completed very soon after this step."

Draco's head was spinning.

"As a submissive, you will be most vulnerable after being 'warmed' but before completing the bond, so you will have to be careful."

"IF I'm a submissive," he corrected her.

She sighed. "If you are a submissive. . ."

He nodded his head in silent thanks, though he still could not meet her gaze. Draco stared off into space. He had to watch himself. He might become a brooder if he were not careful.

"I'm not a girl."

"I know you're not, my Dragon."

"So why is this happening to me?" His face looked about to crumple into angry tears. He held on, just barely, to whatever calm he had left in his body. Narcissa felt any frustration leave her.

"To me, you will always be my son. Regardless of what you look like, sound like, or what your body can do, you will be considered my son for as long as you consider yourself the same."

"But I don't want this! I don't want any children, at least not this way!"

"Nature throws many things at us. We are colored by her hand in ways we do not comprehend, that nevertheless make us who we are. Your case is no different, my Dragon."

Rage broke out over his face again. When he spoke, he spat out the words, and could not keep his lower lip from quivering. "Where's the humanity in that?"

Narcissa smiled weakly. 'Where's the humanity in love?"

Draco just stared at her.

"Surely no man, wizard or otherwise, is foolish enough to think that he controls love. There are forces outside of us that shape our lives Draco, be they love, or disaster, or luck, or inheritance."

"I refuse to be an instrument!" Draco's shoulders trembled.

"Just because a man does not control all does not make him weak. The strong man is defined by his reactions as much as by his actions."

Draco nodded his head, but it did not stop the heaving of his chest. Huddled upon himself, he felt smaller than he ever had in the past, frozen and alone in his distance from all he knew. He clutched the clothes he had around his waist, but even that could to stop the cold, the overwhelming cold that settled itself around him. When he spoke, it was a whisper.

"I want my mate."

Narcisssa could only nod her head, but he was not looking at her. Eventually, she spoke, though it was painful and stuck.

"I know."

She wished to pat him on the shoulder, to hug and to hold him in her arms. She reached out, and her hand hovered over his shoulder. She knew it would only cause him pain, but she ached for him as only a mother can.

"Soon, you will return to school, where you will likely find your mate."

"But what's the chance of him being there?"

His mother smiled again, and this time, he met her gaze with his own. "Very rarely are veela bound to ones they have not met before the change. "In fact," she sighed as she rose from the chair, "often veela have been pulled towards their mates before the change. Their body knew their mates before their mind ever did."

"He might not even be in Britain!"

"Draco, while I understand your fear, you should know that the situation you are describing has never happened before."

'Why not?'

"I'm not sure. But never before has a veela been unable to find their mate. Such is the power of the bond. And do not forget, that your mate will also be searching."

Draco raised his gaze quickly at this.

"Most mates feel the subconscious pull to seek out their veela mate. So with two people searching for each other with that much fervor, it's no surprise to me that veela have always found their mates."

"But not all veela live with their mates."

She sighed. "That is unfortunately the case. A veela can live without their mates, its true, and sometimes they do, but many will end their lives from the pain."

"So without a mate, my life is worthless?"

"I did not say that."

"Still, is it true?"

"Do you know, my Dragon, how often a couple who have been together for forty, fifty years, when one of them passes, the other follows in months? And who would blame the latter for what he'd done?"

"I would." Draco spat, not looking at his mother.

"That's cruel."

"Yeah, well, that's how I feel."

"You will find, Draco, that love can give us meaning that, once gone, cannot be easily replaced."

"So we should just give up?"

She gave a sharp exhale and her nostrils flared. "It is not what I would do myself. But," she added with a shake of her head, "I would not blame those who do."

He stared, with narrowed eyes into space, trying not to move, though he quaked with an involuntary shiver from the creeping cold.

"Let me find you some blankets, Draco, and I will leave you to your reading."

Draco grunted in acknowledgement. She turned and left the library, skirting the circumference of the large table upon which the books were neatly stacked. Draco looked up at the vaulted ceiling, wishing he could see through it and up into the sky. Nothing made sense anymore.

Somewhere in his heart, a pull took residence. It made him ache, sometimes a little, sometimes so much he could barely bear it; he ached to be with his mate. Somewhere out in the world, he thought to himself. Somewhere, under the same stars, he's waiting for me. Just the thought filled him with a little bit of warmth that settled in his stomach. Somewhere out there.

All of the mysteries in the world seemed a great unfairness, reigning down upon him. With a bitter laugh he recalled all those blasted predictions of Trewlawney, of death and disaster and disease that would haunt all of them. Perhaps there was something to her talk of doom and gloom. He couldn't deny that the universe appeared to take a perverse pleasure in back-handed gifts. Nothing good came without strings attached.

And what was he to do? What if his mate didn't care for him? The thought filled him with a deep, cold sorrow from the pit of his soul. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, as if attempting to stave off the feeling. He wanted that warm body promised to him by the universe beside him now, to ward off the loneliness. A mate who was his match.

Draco had never believed in soulmates. Not in the traditional sense. He thought that, perhaps in the world, there was someone who was best fit to a person, but only slightly better than a million other matches who were almost as good. This was different. Someone who would fit him best, in body and soul. Someone with whom he was meant to be? No matter how it made his heart soar, he could not stave off the doubt from entering his mind. It seemed so unlikely, so improbable in the messiness of the vast universe that any two souls could align in perfect harmony. Disease, death, misery, these things plague all people. And here was perfection in two souls that are joined by the heart? It was too good to be true.

Or was it too horrible?

Did he have a choice in the matter? Draco rose from the chair and meandered over to the window, and sat in the chair beneath it. From there, he could contemplate the high cirrus clouds of the August days, those that clung like wisps to the edge of an overheated sky. It was so bright and clear in the gardens today. From his window he looked out upon the flowers, upon the immaculate lawn, to the border of the Malfoy estate, ringed in hedges. Pressing his hand to the window, it opened and he was met with a gust of sunny warmth from the breeze.

If Draco was mated, like an animal, where was the choice? It was so base. He could not help but feel a simultaneous stirring of his heart for the primal, along with a revulsion of the mind. He was a man, not ruled by his lower desires like the common creatures of the earth! Where was that nobility of living that so often took root in his own soul?

His heart swirled sitting by the window. He was a creature after all. Not entirely human. Outside the sounds of bumblebees buzzing over the hedges, drifting up and the down as if carrying much to heavy a burden. The sweet smells of the flowers drifted towards him, and the sunlight fell upon his milky arms. He leaned his head upon the top of his wrist, with his elbow on the windowsill. From there, he lost himself as he stared at the place where the trees met the heavens, as if wishing for the murkiness in his mind to clear like that clean line between earth and sky.

Where was his mate? He felt the pull upon his heart, lulling him to action, to search for what was promised him. He shook himself. He could not fall into melancholy. Though that ache was present always, and though his questions remained unanswered, he could not help but hope. A small, lilting hope, but still, hope. He imagined it floating out the window, like a bumblebee with its heavy burden of wishes and dreams.

He would just have to look. Slowly, he rose from the seat under the window, and rubbed his legs. It felt he had been sitting there for hours. Gingerly, he took a few steps to the table in front of him and picked up a book. You have to start somewhere, he sighed to himself.

. . .

So there it is. The second chapter, all done!

I PROMISE, we're getting to some actual interaction between our two main characters in the next chapter (I hope). In all fairness, I warned y'all that this would be slow-moving.

To the reviewers, I just wanted to say thanks (to all three of you, at the time of this writing.) It's nice to know that somebody's actually following along. Remember, reviews are fun for all! You get to tell me what you really think! I get an ego boost! Woo!

In other news, Imma try to stick to a Friday update thing, but this may or may not pan out in the long run. At least it's true for TODAY's post. Anyhoo.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N:

Hermione. Hermione. HermIOne. I don't know why I always misspell her name! I'm sorry. I'll go back and fix previous misspelling in chapter two eventually, but for now, I'm lazy.

SPEAKING of laziness, sorry I missed my self-appointed update day. I know, two days late here, but sometimes life gets in the way and you do what you can.

Anyway, without further ado, here is chapter three:

. . .

Draco stood at the landing below the stairs at the front entrance of the mansion. Beside him sat his trunk. His gaze followed the steps up to the second floor, into which his mother disappeared minutes ago. He sighed. So this was it. He was off to school again, off to wander the old stone hallways, off to find his mate. Mate. Every time the word entered his mind, his heart fluttered in his chest. What would it be like to have someone with him, someone who could fill his life with whatever was missing? Even though it had only been a week since his birthday, he could not imagine what it was like to go a day without feeling that pull in his chest. Now he wondered; had it always been there, just in the background of his mind? Had that knowledge of his mate been buried in him since birth? He couldn't remember anymore.

He brushed his robes, as if trying to remove lint from them. They were pure black, just the way they had always been. It was an adventure getting fit for them. Walking Diagon Alley taught him well: never before had he noticed how often people in crowds brush against each other. He felt a burst of pain with each accidental gesture. By the end of the day, his whole body ached from the repeated contact.

He and his mother had gone alone; Draco thought about going with Blaise, or Pansy, or Boot, or Nott, but honestly, he wasn't ready to show his face to anyone. Still, their companionship would be welcome, as soon as he stepped aboard the train. He looked up at the vaulted ceiling of Malfoy Manor and sighed. He'd see it again soon. He'd be back before he knew it.

He wondered what it'd be like to talk to them all. They never talked once after the final battle took place, not all together. What would it be like, to be sitting in a train car with his old friends, just like nothing had ever happened? Would he be able to laugh and talk like a normal person? Could he smile, could he hold a conversation with someone who wasn't his mother? These thoughts nibbled at the edge of his mind everyday now.

His ache, as he called it, seemed to be steadily growing, if very slowly. The dullness in his heart called out for his mate. He sighed. There wasn't going to be much avoiding the issue once he got to Hogwarts.

He couldn't decide how to feel. Some days it seemed like he was about to give in, to chase after that pull and go searching, to fall before the knees of the man with whom he was meant to be. Some days it felt like the part of him that got left on the floor in the final battle was the fight in his soul. Merlin, some days seemed empty and Draco, Draco was just tired.

Other days, he could fight it. Other days, Draco knew he would make it out the same man he went into it if he could just hold onto himself. A Malfoy was a Malfoy no matter what, and he had been raised to be a good man. A man who cared about his family, who watched out for stains on pants and hairs out of place. The kind of man who could live a proper life. And this whole "mate issue,' it was just one more obstacle that good men overcome in their lives. So too would he overcome it.

His thoughts swirled around him until he heard his mother's footfalls at the top of the stairs. She came down slowly with deliberate steps, and Draco could not help but watch her with a kind of easy appreciation. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her handbag clutched in front of her. An audible sigh escaped her lips, but it could have been one of relief or one of anticipation.

"Are you ready, my Dragon?"

"Yes, Mother."

She nodded her head. "Then let us depart." Despite her manner, Draco saw the happiness, the sadness, the pain, the anxiety, and most of all, the love in her eyes. He gave her a small smile in return, and, taking hold of his luggage, turned on the spot and disappeared.

That familiar pull in his navel evaporated as he landed in Platform 9 ¾ with his mother landing by his side. They stood near each other, and Draco arranged his luggage beside him so as to keep a bubble of space around him. He didn't need to be taught that painful lesson twice.

The Platform teemed with people, which, in retrospect, shouldn't have surprised Draco. Nevertheless, he couldn't pretend not to be shocked by the fact that other people were going back. He sighed. Perhaps the best way to move past a war was to live life as if it had never happened. The sun in the sky shone brightly, and a few clouds shaded the train cars sporadically. Families waved goodbye to their children. Mothers hugged their sons. Draco looked at his mother, but she stared straight ahead, as if waiting for him to make the first move.

And the smells! Merlin, every person had a scent that was noticeable, permeable. Never had so many robust hormones met in so dramatic a manner as at a train station full of teenagers. Looking over the crowd, he wrinkled his nose. None smelled particularly appealing. A small bird of panic fluttered in his stomach, threatening to grow larger. What if his mate DIDN'T go to Hogwarts? He was counting on the truth of his mother's insistences. But if she was wrong, what hope did he have?

"Do you sense him?"

Draco jumped slightly, so slightly that only a woman like Mrs. Malfoy would have noticed the movement. He was so engrossed by the smells around him, that he hadn't noticed her lean over towards him and mutter near his ear. He shook his head at her, and she gave a short exhale, so that her nostrils flared slightly.

"Well,' he began softly. 'I suppose this is goodbye for now."

Narcissa smiled gently. "I suppose it is."

"I'll write."

"Draco," she chided, but still with a smile. "You've never been so sentimental before."

He couldn't help but smile back. "Maybe it's genetic."

She chuckled softly, and the happiness settled in the depths of her blue eyes. After a pause, she spoke.

"Don't worry if you haven't sensed him yet. Give it time. I believe in you."

He nodded half-heartedly. "Thanks."

She blew him a kiss, and he returned the favor. "I love you, my Dragon. Be strong. I know you are."

And with that, he dragged his luggage away from her, and towards the train. Looking over his shoulder, he saw her waving. So this was goodbye for now. He couldn't tell if that had been easy or hard. People looked at him, to be sure, while he stood a respectful distance from the line waiting to climb the steps. Plenty stared, but no one spoke to him. No one made eye contact. And he was content to allow them to gaze. Could he help it if he was gorgeous?

When the time came, he rose up the steps carefully, with light but deliberate steps. A Malfoy was nothing if not always poised. The sun receded from the back of his head as he entered the next train car. His mother had disappeared by the time he turned around to look for her.

Walking down the hallway, he felt the stares upon him. To be honest, it was more than he was used to. People had always stared at him, but often with eyes wide full of fear, resentment, perhaps envy. Now, he got wide-eyed looks of surprise from the reserved and open-mouthed gazes of awe from the intemperate. The smells took hold of him as he walked along, and he couldn't help wrinkling his nose in slight disgust. Nope, none of these people were even SLIGHTLY palatable.

He had been thinking about this whole mate thing. It seemed far-fetched, to be sure. There was one person, JUST ONE, with whom he was meant to be? Maybe things just got a little exaggerated as time went on. He couldn't deny that there was the pull with him almost constantly, but it was awfully imprecise. He figured that if he could find someone his body liked well enough, than he could call that person his mate and leave it at that.

"Bloody Hell, Draco, how you been?"

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin. He recognized that voice anywhere, and he couldn't keep the smile off his face. He was about to call out to Theo Nott, but as he was turning, Theo cut him off.

"Bloody Hell, Draco. . ."

Their eyes met as Theo's voice trailed away. There stood the genial Slytherin, long and lanky as ever, with his short brown hair framing his face. There was a poorly-masked look of awe upon his face. For a Slytherin, he had always been the loudest of the bunch. Draco noticed his scent, though warm and somehow inviting, seemed to simultaneously repel him against his will.

"You want to find somewhere to sit?"

Theo nodded his head, but couldn't take his eyes off of the boy in front of him. Draco led the way along down the corridor, until they reached their old cabin. They had not said another word in the meantime, as Nott seemed to have recovered from his shock enough to recognize that whatever had caused Draco's radical change in appearance, it was likely he wanted it kept private. Pushing the door open, he settled in the seat under the window, while Theo put their luggage in the cart above them. He turned quickly and shut the door behind them, and spun on his heels to face the seated boy.

"Bloody Hell, Draco!"

"You've mentioned, " Draco drawled.

"What in Merlin's name happened to your face?"

Draco bristled. He liked Nott; he liked him quite well. He was a friend after all. But the boy could use a lesson or two in tact.

"What do you mean?" Draco gave a slight smile, feigning ignorance.

There was a pause while Theo stared at him, with wide eyes begging Draco to not make him speak. But Draco did not give in, so eventually Theo spoke again.

"You look. . . Well, you look, well, pretty!" Theo's face colored and he looked at his feet.

Draco wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't given this enough thought, what he would say to his friends. Surely they needed to know the truth eventually, but he couldn't quite bring himself to tell Theo. Besides, what if all of this turned out to be quite manageable? Would they even need to know? Perhaps he could solve this problem quietly, find his mate, bond with the bloke, and let no one else be the wiser. After a while, he realized that Theo was expecting a response. He cleared his throat, and said "I'll explain once we're all here."

Theo nodded his head in ascent.

He took a seat across from Draco, who gazed absently out the window, his head resting on his hand. Draco knew he was being rude; he knew he was being obscure. But somewhere inside him, the easy conversation of the past seemed to be frozen. He could not make the words come, so instead he sat and watched the window, seeing the hundreds of families milling about, together for the last time for months to come. Bitterness bubbled up in him. Maybe this time, most of those families might meet again, intact.

A sigh escaped his lips. This was going to be quite the year.  
>A knock sounded upon the door, and he looked up. "Come in."<p>

Blaise walked in, with Pansy in tow. "Sorry it toke us so long to find you blokes. These hallways are crowded as Hell."

Blaise was muttering to himself, as he dealt with his luggage and Pansy's. Then he turned to face them, and upon gazing at Draco, his eyebrows shot up. "I see things have changed."

He smelled good and manly, if a bit distant. Pansy smelt sweet and flowery, but clearly neither of them was his mate. He sighed. Of course. It couldn't have been that simple. Pansy stood, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Blaise, Pansy." Draco stopped, and a smile broke out on his face.

"It's good to see you again."

"Likewise," said Blaise, though his eyebrows had not lowered.

"I've missed you, Draco!" said Pansy with open arms. Draco smiled at her, glad to have his best friend near him again. He stood to greet her, but did not reach out. She let her arms fall again, her eyes shining in confusion.

"I would return the gesture, Pansy, but I'm afraid I've come into some. . . awkward straights as of late and they're keeping me a bit restrained."

She nodded her head but a wary look remained in her eyes while she found a seat next to her best friend. She could barely keep her eyes of the boy in front of her with his soft features and light, clear eyes. Never before had he looked so beautiful and, she thought, almost fragile. When he spoke, his voice soft, she couldn't help but be captivated.

"As I'm sure you all have noticed, my appearance is a bit. . . different this year. And though I can't find fault with it myself, I understand how shocking it is to see." At this, he smirked, and a gentle smile appeared on Pansy's face. Many years ago, she had a crush on the young Draco, with his good looks and his sharp wit. It had been hard in fourth year, when Draco came to her and confessed his attraction to one Blaise Zabini. Still, getting over him hadn't been that hard when she realized what she gained: a true best friend.

Looking at him now, she saw the elements of the boy that attracted her, all those years ago. They were fused with new elements of his person that were beautiful and new. He was almost excruciatingly pretty.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door opening yet again, with a slightly red-faced Terry Boot heaving his luggage inside.

"Merlin! What a crowd!"

He swore at the floor and began to shift his luggage over the runner of the sliding door. He turned around and nodded at the other passengers, until his eyes stopped on Draco. The smaller boy shifted in his seat under the gaze. Something about the firm gaze of a man made him feel, well, uncomfortable. But it might just have been that Terry was sharp as a whip, and any explanation of his . . . condition short of the truth wouldn't impress him much. And there was the scent, one that spoke of strength, intelligence, and power. It made him feel nervous in spite of himself.

"So it's true what they've been saying," he said nonchalantly on Draco's general direction as he heaved his luggage up into the carriage. "You do look like a girl."

Blaise chuckled and Pansy snickered, while Draco glared at both of them.

"Ah, what are you getting your panties in a twist about? You're the talk of the town. How is that different from usual?" Terry questioned with a smirk. "Besides," he continued, "your glare doesn't look as threatening as it used to."

"You're playing with fire there, Boot." Draco pouted.

"Aww, he's too cute to be angry with!" Pansy half simpered, a grin plastered on her face. Inwardly, Draco was smiling at their antics. Maybe this would all turn out ok.

Suddenly, a heavenly scent wafted through the window. It smelled of clean laundry and honeysuckle and soap, with a musky manliness undercutting it all. It settled warmly in his body, filling him up with an unmoving rock of contentment, and making his legs turn to jelly. He thanked the heavens that he was seated when it hit him, for it would have knocked him to the ground otherwise. His head snapped over to the window, and he looked outside. Damn! So many people. He rose slowly, so as not to alert the other members of the car to his acts.

"It's so bloody hot in here," he muttered as he wrenched the window open, and he thought he did a respectable job of keeping the shake out of his voice. His heart lilted in song as the scent grew stronger. Somewhere, somewhere very close.

He scanned the crowd for anyone he might recognize. He cursed; there were so many people from his year! Plenty of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs he had seen before. Then his eyes settled on Lovegood, Longbottom, and the bunch of redheads and bleeding Harry Potter! Something seemed to waft from over the group, but he couldn't even catch clear sight of a single face from this far away.

He shook himself from where he stood. He must be seeing things. Bloody Potter, his mate! That was practically too cruel to imagine. There were so many people in the crowd, he couldn't be sure. And, if he had seen his mate, he would have known, right? And, well, all he smelled was a nice smell. And what kind of evidence was that?

"Draco? You ok?"

Shit! Pansy was staring at him, her eyes wide. In fact, everyone was staring at him. Maybe he wasn't as smooth about it as he thought he was. He scratched his head in thought. If things were going to be this bad, there might be no hiding it. Just a smell of his mate, and he was swooning! He would have to come clean.

"As you were all so rudely pointing out, I do indeed look different this year. I'm afraid that's the product of a certain, shall we say, incident in the bloodlines of the Malfoys and the Blacks."

He started to pace the room and all eyes followed him. But he missed a step when the train started to move. Stumbling forward, hewas about to fall until he felt Terry's searing hand upon his arm. A sharp pain lick his arm like fire. He hissed and pulled away, massaging his bicep where the other boy grabbed him.

"Don't. . . don't touch me!" he choked out.

"Draco! What the Hell is going on?" Terry's eyes were wide with shock and pain.

"You can't touch me! None of you can touch me!" Draco clutched at himself, hunched over and wild eyed. He quivered with animalistic fear, his hair in disarray, his knees on his chest.

"Draco, you're scaring us." Pansy clutched at her chest.

Draco stumbled his seat, clawing at the air. Finally he sat and panted for a moment, regaining his strength. When he looked up to meet the stares of his friends, his face was calm.

"I'm sorry about that. I should have warned you. Until further notice, I won't be able to make bodily contact with anyone without excruciating pain. It is a rather unfortunate side effect of the inheritance."

"The inheritance?" Pansy's mind was spinning. "Do you. . . Draco, do you have non-human blood?"

He nodded his head, and she gasped. The wide eyes grew only wider.

"Both of my parents have veela blood," he spoke softly, making the statement as simple and direct as possible.

He didn't want to look at any of them. Sure, Malfoys were taught to be proud, to keep their heads high. But what would those who knew him say now? Would he still be human enough to them, that they might stay friends?

"Well," Blaise began, clearing his throat. "I have to say, it sure does explain a lot."

Draco looked around the room to see all heads nodding in agreement,

"So that's what the new look's about?"

"And the no-touchey rule?"

"Yes," said Draco.

Blaise and Terry sat with their arms folded across their chests. Theo still stared at Draco, but Pansy had the hint of a smile on her face.

"So, do you know who your mate is yet?"

Draco couldn't keep the shock off of his face. "How do you know about veela?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Every pureblood knows about veela. I heard stories about them from before I could walk." The others seemed to agree.

"Really?"

"You mean you didn't?"

"Well, no, I suppose my father deemed it unimportant."

Pansy sputtered. "Unimportant? Every pureblood girl's dream is to be mated to a dominant veela. It's supposed to be heaven."

"But if you reacted like that to my grabbing you," began Terry contemplatively, "you're probably not dominant, am I right?"

Draco blushed, but otherwise did not acknowledge the question.

"I see."

Draco whirled on him. "Look, it's complicated. I'm still trying to put things together, so I apologize if I don't exactly know for sure."

"But I take it none of us are your mate," Blaise spoke slowly.

"Yes, that seems right."

Draco turned out the window at the flying countryside. He had seen these sights seven times before. It was quite lovely. Every now and again, he caught slight wisps of that scent. Only a ghost remained of it remained in his memory, and he wanted, needed to be near its owner. Hopefully this whole "mate" nonsense wouldn't take too much time to resolve.

. . .

"All I'm saying is that I think it's wise of you, for once, not to take the easy route. Advanced Potions may be a challenge, but isn't that what life's all about."

"Hey, Hermione, I know studying is great and all, but I like having time for other things like, you know, breathing."

She rolled her eyes at him, but Ron knew she wasn't serious. He let his head loll back, and counted the stains on the ceiling for the umpteenth time. Twenty-three distinct markings, more if you counted the barely-touching ones separately. He never remembered how long this train ride was. Conversation was good for the first two hours, but now that they had another two to go, the topical pickings were slim.

He glanced around the room, at Hermione, sitting next to him, her nose in her textbook for Seventh year Astronomy. Next to her, Neville sat, staring off with an intensity Ron had never seen in the boy before the War. Across from him sat Luna Lovegood, reading the Quibbler upside-down as usual. And next to her, his eyes closed, drool on his cheek, sat the-boy-who-kicked-the-Dark-Lord's-Ass.

Seeing them again had filled his heart with warmth. Hermione hugged him once they met at Platform 9 ¾ , but they hadn't touched since. They hadn't even held hands. Now, sitting next to her, he felt her closeness but also her distance. He hadn't tried to do a thing to change the situation. They would warm up on their own, right?

"Hey Luna, what's in the Quibbler today?"

Ron motioned towards the paper in the blonde girl's hands. She looked over the top, or rather, the bottom of the page and spoke in her soft melodic voice.

"Oh, it's a very interesting article my father wrote on magical auras."

Ron grinned. At least this was interesting. "Magical auras?"

"Yes. You know, they can tell one quite a lot about a wizard."

"How so?"

"Well, they can detect magical signals in one's aura. There are many different things. But, you see," at this she turned a page to them upon which an outline of a hand could be seen. "My father drew up a test. If you place your hand here," she pointed to the hand, "it will read your aura."

Hermione, who had been listening for a while now, cut in.

"Now, Luna, don't you think that sounds a little far-fetched? I mean, if 'wizard auras' could truly be tested, wouldn't we already know about them an how to test for them?"

"We do," said Luna matter-of-factly. "It's right here." Again, she pointed to the page.

"I want to try this, " said Ron, rousing himself from the chair and heading over to sit next to Luna. She looked up at him, beaming. He was grinning too. Hermione huffed, but he looked over at her and said "What? What harm can it do?'

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "None, I suppose."

Luna held out the page for Ron, and he dutifully placed his right palm upon it. True to its word, colors shot out from his fingers: a deep, velvety red. Ron looked at the page in awe for a minute, before he could summon words to speak.  
>"What does that mean?" he asked excitedly.<br>"Hmm," began Luna, turning the page sideway. "Let's consult the color chart." There was a moment's silence, while she examined something intently that Ron couldn't see. Eventually, she spoke again.

"Hmm, this IS interesting. According to this, a velvet red indicates the bonding of two souls."

Ron's eyes widened almost incredulously. "What?" he spluttered.

"It means that you are destined to be with one person, I suppose. You know, soulmates." She extended her hand to him.

"What?"

"Congratulations!" she said, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

"What?"

She smiled at him. "Surely, knowing that one's magic is forever intertwined with the magic of another is a wonderful thing. Not everyone is so lucky."

"I guess. . . thanks?" Ron withdrew his hand and rubbed at the offending palm, which had left the velvet red color on the page.

"Let me see this," said Hermione, pushing the book from her lap and onto the floor as she marched over to Luna. She had been watching the whole exchange intently while she pretended to read. Pressing her hand flat against the page, it turned an icy blue.

"What does that mean?"

Luna turned the page sideways again. "Hmm, ice blue. Apparently, that's a signifier of an unbonded magic."

There was silence. Hermione just stared at the page, while Luna looked away dreamily. Ron looked at the two of them and gulped. This couldn't be good.

"So this test says I don't have a soulmate, but Ronald does."

Ron looked at the floor. Her voice sounded calm, deadly calm. When she used the full name, he knew trouble was brewing.

"Well," she began, though there was hurt in her eyes. 'That's clearly nonsense. There's no such thing as reading a wizard's 'aura.' What rubbish."

"It seems that ice blue is also an indicator of rigid unwillingness to believe."

Hermione just glared. Ron sighed. This was going to be a LONG two hours.

. . .

They arrived at Hogwarts without a hitch. Unloading trunks, boarding the thestral-drawn carriages (thestrals, Ron might add, they all could see), piling through the entrance and into the Great Hall. Ron and Hermione had prefect's duties to take care of, leading the first years through to the Sorting. In the hubbub, Ron hadn't managed to catch Hermione alone.

He knew she didn't really believe in whatever stuff got printed in the Quibbler and, to be honest, neither did he. But that didn't mean she was happy about what it said. He saw how her eyes shone with anger and sorrow when her hand on the page didn't shoot out that velvet red.

It wasn't that Ron BELIEVED in soulmates, or bonded magic or whatever. It just seemed as if the two of them should have produced a similar color, or something, some indicator of their togetherness. He felt for her, how some little thing might be so disconcerting, especially after the day they'd been having. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her just what he thought of that stupid little test, but. . . somehow Hermione never seemed to be alone.

He thought about talking to Harry about it, but truth be told, he was too tired to explain the whole story. And besides, since he was busy leading first years through Hogwarts and Harry wasn't a prefect, they hadn't seen each other that much since leaving the train.

Speaking of first years, they sure looked cowed. He grimaced. He hoped that when he was their age, he hadn't looked nearly so terrified. And they were all so bloody short! When he thought about that first year, how a gang of eleven-year-olds took on the most powerful dark wizard in existence, he had to shake his head in disbelief. How they did it, he wasn't even sure. If they had known, back then, what they were getting themselves into, what the next seven years of their lives would bring, he doubted they would have made it.

That's all over now, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him. None of these kids will ever have to do something like that. Thanks to us, their lives can be normal. Thanks to us, they can be kids when they're supposed to be kids. At least they'll get the chance at a childhood.

There was the sorting. Headmistress McGonagall gave a speech, welcoming back old students and new alike. Ron was too tired to pay much attention. Hours of worrying about Hermione left him exhausted. To much joy and applause, the new Headmistress announced that taking her place as the Professor of Transfiguration was none other than Remus Lupin. Ron whooped as loud as the rest of them, and it was the brightest moment of the night. He looked over at the Slytherins, expecting sneering derision, but finding only mute acceptance. He did note the strange absence of one Draco Malfoy, but concluded the smarmy bastard was just too scared to show. All in all, it was a wonderful night, and he had stuffed himself to the brim for the first time in far too long.

When he fell into bed that night, across from Harry, under Seamus, and next to Dean and Neville, he barely had time to thank his lucky stars for whatever fate had given him before his eyes closed and there was sleep.

. . .

Author's note:

Whoop! We got through the first day! Yeesh, I don't know about you, but that felt like a LOT to have go down in one chapter. I know, I know, 15,000 words in and our two lovebirds haven't met yet, but I'm almost CERTAIN that's our next chapter. And Draco smelled his mate, so THAT's something.

In other news, yeah, Remus Lupin's not dead. Also, thanks Andraste Straton for confirming that at least ONE person reads my notes. But anyway, yeah, that death was stupid so. . . POOF! It didn't happen. Through the magic of fanfiction. . . Actually, it solves the problem of trying to create a new character to fill Professor McGonagall's old post.

I think I'm bringing back one other old friend, just because. But you'll have to wait and see. oooOOOooo.

And another word about updates. I'll do my best, but life always comes first. (Stupid life, you always get in the way!)

OH! And thanks to all my lovely reviewers. Y'all are saying I'm writing the story you've been waiting for. Well, you sure know how to make an author blush! Thanks so much you guys!

Anyhoo, enjoy, and I'll see y'all again soon!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N:

Ok. Sorry this took so long! I rewrote this chapter like, a million times, and I didn't want to half-arse it. Also, this is not entirely planned out, so I can't promise really regular updates. Sorry, peeps.

Sigh. I know, we all want to bring Sirius back. But erasing his death would take too much reworking of the series to make any sense. And, strangely enough, his death kind of figures into the plot I have in mind. So, in short, I'm really sorry, but Sirius won't be coming back.

Tonks I don't care about.

. . .

His alarm sounded, and Draco awoke in his dorm room. It was the next morning and his stomach was already growling. He hadn't gone to the Great Hall last night for the first meal of the year. He was planning on going, but Pansy convinced him otherwise. "After all," she told him, "you don't know how you'll react to smelling your mate. If you were to faint or something, it would look bad in front of the whole school." He agreed with her, thinking of how his legs melted at the first wisp of his mate's scent on the train. And furthermore, an entire hall full of hormonal teenagers wasn't exactly what he needed, especially with the new strength of his nose. Theo tried to sneak him some food last night, but it wasn't really enough. Now, his hunger was in full force.

He had mixed feelings waking up in his old Hogwarts bed, Theo's bed across from his. He loved Theo as one of his best friends, and it was nice to hear someone else's breathing at night. But now they were the only ones there. Crabbe was dead. Goyle wasn't coming back either. Draco and Theo's room, as they called it now, held those two empty beds, and in spite of himself, Draco couldn't help but miss his old bodyguards.

They were never brilliant, but they were always there, whenever he needed to talk, whenever he needed safety. He wished, in spite of himself, that he had treated them better. They were good people, in their own way, even if they did a lot of harm, especially at his own bequest. If he could have started over again, meeting them on his first day in Hogwarts, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe Crabbe would still be there, snoring like he always used to. Just another couple of ghosts, one still technically living, the other long gone, fit to join the halls of that old school, never quite forgotten but never really there again.

Not that Malfoys had regrets.

It was too late to dwell on things lost. Draco shook his head, as if to refocus. He recalled setting his alarm the night before for quite early, so that he could get down to the Great Hall before anyone else. Now, gliding towards the prefect's bathroom, he wasn't quite certain it was the best plan. He was yawning and shivering at the same time, which should qualify as some sort of achievement.

He came to the prefect's bathroom door and uttered the password. "Green Snake." It occurred to him that, in his rush to avoid everyone with their scents and stares the night before, he had accidentally shirked his prefect's duties. Whoops. He was sure good old Daphne Greengrass had a ball last night, leading around those snot-nosed first years by herself. He would have felt bad, but really, he wouldn't have been much help had he showed up. He wasn't very good with kids. He did not "play well with others," so to speak, especially since the whole "inheritance" thing.

Yet he could not shake the feeling of the pull on his heart, ignited in him since that first smell met him on the train. As soon as he thought about it, which was often, even in the warm water, he shivered. Something was missing. There could be little denying that, at least not while he sat alone in an empty room. He sighed and clutched his arms around his shoulders. He had been happy just moments ago. Only Draco malfoy could depress himself while taking a bubble bath.

He stared at the wall in front of him. As much as he identified with his Slytherin side, as much as he enjoyed rooting for the Silver and Green, sometimes the dungeons felt pretty empty. He sat motionless, as the water began to grow tepid. Most of the bubbles had popped, what was left of the froth clinging to his body. He examined his hands, his fingers now grown pruny. Dipping the long digits in the water, his reflection bubbled back at him.

After what felt like a good hour, he was ready to head downstairs.

Classes wouldn't start until Monday, so that gave him some time to adjust to the new environment. He already knew what classes he would be taking: Advanced Potions, of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts. He didn't know how useful that class might be, other than the fact that it was a requirement for a job as an auror. Then, of course, there was Transfiguration, and Arithmancy. Things were, at least on paper, quite doable.

Now, walking towards the Great Hall, he tried to keep the trepidation in the back of his mind silent. He would eat, and leave quickly. He would to avoid the majority of his fellow students until he had a better handle on things. At least over the weekend, he could dine at odd hours, keep locked up in his room, walk the grounds, whatever it took to stay far away from the majority of the Hogwarts population. Before long, he came to the doors of the Great hall. He pulled one open and slid through the crack, greeted with the immensity of the room, filled with nothing but sunlight.

He found his old place at a deserted Slytherin table. Gazing up at the ceiling, the bright blue sky shone through, flecked with clouds. Slowly, he cracked open an egg that appeared before him and spread jam on a few slices of toast. Taking dainty bites, he flipped through one of those muggle books he found in his mother's room. Pride and Prejudice. Hmm, he thought to himself. It wasn't half bad. It had been a slow start, and he had to get used to the idea that everything that was going to happen happened in conversation. But once he acclimated, he found himself pulled into the romance, the way romance ought to be done: grand and wonderful and, above all else, true.

He couldn't help himself: he hoped his mate was like Mr. Darcy, someone smart and clever and more than anything else, irrevocably in love with him. Sure, Elizabeth and Darcy had their ups and downs, but anyone with eyes could see that Darcy was hopelessly in love with Elizabeth from the day he met her. He took slow bites of a few strawberries. Ever since his transformation, foods tasted brighter and more concentrated. He chalked it up to the better sense of smell. Still, he couldn't help but enjoy himself. The castle was almost pleasant this early in the morning, when everything was quiet.

A few students were trickling through the doors. He smelled them as they entered: pasty, young, and altogether unappealing. Sighing, he finished his last strawberry. This was likely the end to his peace and quiet, the end to his nice reading environment. It was a shame: this Austin lady wasn't half bad, especially for a muggle.

He wiped his mouth and set his silverware down again. Nothing like a relaxing breakfast to clear one's head. Putting the book in his bag, he climbed over the empty long bench and headed towards the door. And then suddenly, that heavenly scent was just around the corner! His knees went weak and he threw out his hands at the nearest table, leaning against it heavily. Around the door walked Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and the bloody boy-who-lived!

They sure had changed. All of them had battle scars, or all except Harry, who of course had primarily internal scarring, but for the prominent exception scrawled across his forehead. They were all taller, stronger, fuller, rougher. Each of them seemed more direct, more present, and more somber, even Seamus. But Draco barely noticed these changes. He was far to bowled over by that scent.

They were chattering to each other but they stopped when they caught sight of them. Draco had righted himself with an effort, and he tried to control his facial expression. They were staring at him with wide eyes, no one moving a muscle. Draco inhaled deeply. His head was spinning. That scent seemed as elusive as ever.

Something was wrong. Now that the four boys were close, he sensed something underneath that smell. Dean's hardy scent, Neville's warmish one, Seamus's bright one. Even Potter, though surrounded by that scent, smelled strong but flat and almost slightly acrid. Draco felt repulsed by all of them. Despite the smell, none of them could be his mate! He couldn't think straight. How could this be possible?

Eventually, Potter cleared his throat. "Morning, Malfoy."

Draco had almost forgotten that they were on nominally polite terms since the end of the war. Potter had supplied testimony in his very own trial, as well as his mother's, supporting their acquittal. Draco struggled against his thoughts to find words.

"Morning Potter, Finnegan, Longbottom, Thomas." He kept his voice cool and steady.

They nodded their heads, but their wide eyes never left his face. He knew they were examining his features, just like everyone else and their grandmother had been keen to do. His face prickled in response. Now that they had been standing, that tremendous scent seemed to be fading. How could it be, that his mate must have been so close and yet now seemed so far?

He decided to end the staring contest by walking through the huge oak doors and into the hallway. He felt their eyes follow him as he left, as well as some errant second, third, and fourth years who had wandered into the Great Hall for an early Sunday brunch. Draco didn't even want to think what a PR disaster it would have been had he gone at a normal time. He hurried towards the dungeons: he couldn't afford another mistake like that!

He chewed his lip as he walked. It wasn't like him to make such easy mistakes! A year ago, just a year ago, he fought in a war, almost taking the life of the most powerful wizard of the century. He shuddered to think how long he would have lasted, had he come into his inheritance then. No longer able to keep a straight face when he needed to, liable to go knock-kneed at any moment. Post-inheritance Draco would have been dead within a week, mate or no mate.

He cursed himself at the involuntary shiver that coursed through his blood when he thought about losing his mate. He cared so much, more than he ever should, about a man he had never met. His inheritance had taken over his life in a matter of a few weeks. Ever since his birthday, all he could think about was his mate and whoever that would be. All he could think about was the empty place he felt, the empty place that had taken over the hole in his heart left from the last year. Just thinking about it made his heart beat faster, made his head want to spin off his shoulders. How self-centered he had become! Could he forget all those who lost around him, how lucky he had been to be spared? Apparently he could.

He used to think that the Draco who cared about PR disasters died a few years ago, begging his way into Slughorn's Holiday party, sniveling at the feet of a lunatic, cowering beneath the iron fist of his father. He thought he had moved beyond such pettiness, out of the realm of those childhood cares of not even respect, but pure reputation. He thought the war had taught him how little things like that mattered, in the face of loss and torture, fear and death. Apparently, Draco had been wrong. Maybe there was something in the air at Hogwarts that bred pettiness.

Not that he could blame it on Hogwarts. Everyone else had grown up. It showed in the faces of seventeen-year-olds who grew up too fast, because they had no other options. Faces covered in blood, missing parts, he saw it again when he shut his eyes. But so quickly shoved aside it all was, when he had the first opportunity, before even the first anniversary of the final battle in the same hallways he now walked with so little care or reverence.

No one else forgot.

Reading muggle books too, as if some made-up romance mattered two fucks anyway. Had his inheritance reduced his brain to that of a five-year-old's? He had never done such a stupid thing before, not even when he really WAS five.. Either his inheritance had changed him more than he knew, or he was turning to shit for no reason other than his own stupid failure.

Walking down the corridor, he shuddered, whether from cold or from disgust, even he could not tell.

. . .

Ron woke up, late as usual. Looking around the room, he saw that his mates were all gone to breakfast. "Nice of them to wake me up," he muttered to himself. He smacked his lips. Yuck! Nothing like morning breath.

In its own way, however, it was nice to have some piece and quiet. Not that he didn't enjoy talking with everyone. He did, but after all they had been through, after winning the war of the century, they somehow didn't have all that much to say to each other. Once you've seen friends dying, family missing, people suffering all around you, it's a little difficult to get all up in arms about who the new professors are. Stretching, he slipped on some shoes to make his way down to the prefect's bathroom. Hey, it's not like watching first years all day and night didn't have its perks.

As soon as he reached the door, he uttered the password. "Green snake." He huffed to himself. He understood the idea behind it: that the password rotated weekly between the themes of the four houses. Some mubo jumbo meant to keep the houses united. But really, since the Slytherins basically _caused_ the war, it seemed a far punishment to remove them from the cycle. Not that he was irritable or anything.

Pushing open the door, he was greeted with a wonderful odor, and an empty room. The scent of something sweet and husky hung in the air, like the edge of a memory, not completely faded away, but no longer distinguishable in its origin. Ron inhaled deeply, trying to place it. All he could tell was that it reminded him of home, somehow.

He rubbed his hands together. Unless the water was running, this place was bloody freezing! He walked over to one of the tubs, from where the scent seemed to be emanating . It felt warmer than the rest of the place, and Ron felt somehow drawn to it. He puzzled over this for a minute, but eventually shrugged his shoulders. Hey, who was he to question some happiness, wherever it happened to come from? Without further ado, he turned on the tap and watched the tub begin to fill, grinning happily at the prospect of warmth. Sweet, sweet warmth!

Scrubbing himself in the bath, he went over the muscles with care. They spoke to his strength and newfound prowess, and, vain as it might seem, he liked to take note of it. Those new forms that rippled under his skin when he flexed or shifted, he was proud of them. They were gained with hard work and a lot lost in the war. In a strange way, he was proud to have something positive to show for it. He washed until all that were left were the freckles.

After drying off, he dressed himself in a fresh pair of Hogwarts robes, ones that actually fit this year. Money was still relatively tight in the Weasley home, but his parents couldn't let Ron go his last year at Hogwarts in hand-me down pants. Now, putting them on, they felt good. He felt good. Then his stomach growled. Hopefully he hadn't missed breakfast. With that thought, and with another moan from his stomach, he exited the prefect's bathroom and broke into a jog. There was no way he'd miss his chance to eat.

He rounded a corner and almost ran into someone.

"Woah, sorry mate. I didn't see where. . ." He said before he looked up, into the wide eyes of one Draco Malfoy.

Ron almost opened his mouth in shock. Draco looked different from how he had remembered him. Ron blinked, to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Draco, or someone who looked an awful lot like him, hadn't moved a muscle. His face looked softer, more rounded, but that might have been the seeming horror stretching his mouth and, consequentially, his face into an o. The Draco he remembered looked pinched, look sickly ill, looked like. . . well, he supposed, looked like he was in a war. New Draco looked better, it seemed. Draco looked thinner than he remembered though, even through thick black robes. He gave off the impression of having shrunk.

For a moment, he looked barely human.

"Wa-watch where you're going, Malfoy," Ron managed. He was too shocked to be really angry, and apparently, so was Malfoy. The other boy had opened his lips, as if to speak, and he seemed to move them slightly, but no sound came out. Before Ron could give it a moment more's thought, Draco walked off down the hall, rather stiffly. Ron turned forward and walked ahead, but he couldn't help but shoot look after look back at the blond head making it's way in the opposite direction.

"What the bloody Hell was that?" Ron wondered aloud. Couldn't one damn day at this bloody school just go normally?

Draco felt like panicking. What in Merlin's name had just happened to him? He was walking, minding his own business, and all of a sudden, he brushed shoulders with _Weasley_ of all people. He found himself leaning against the wall for support, unable to look away from the boy in front of him, unable to blink. The scent from the train floated over and engulfed him, making him woozy, but for the undercurrent of fear that ran through him. Weasley STARED at him, as if he could see right through him. That gaze pierced him to his soul, pierced through the scent and every thought he had. Draco was certain that Weasley _knew_.

The moment passed as quickly as it came. He wrenched himself away from the wall and walked away, refusing to look back and refusing to run. He felt like he had when he had been called on, in his own home, to identify the golden trio. His stomach turned and he almost vomited along the hallway. This was not good. This was not good at all.

After what felt like hours, he came to the portrait marking the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons.

"Password?"

"D-d-decorous dragons!" he stuttered, his arms shaking at his sides.

The portrait swung open, but with a raised eyebrow.

He stumbled forward, and into a filling common room dressed in green and silver against the bare stone. People stared at him, to be sure, but he was too distracted to care. His heart sank when he saw Pansy appearing at the top of the stairs leading to the girl's rooms. She was chatting with some Emma girl, but when she caught his eyes, she stopped. Walking quickly but inconspicuously as possible, she stood next to him and leaned over.

"What's wrong?"

Draco felt her warm breath on his ear. He shivered almost imperceptibly, but was determined not to show any of his haggard self to her. He really needed some peace and quiet, to just sit and rest I his own room, without intrusion.

"Nothing's wrong."

Pansy nodded her head, and then muttered.

"I haven't eaten breakfast yet. This had better be good."

Draco gave her a weak smile, but followed her slowly as she headed towards his room. He was silently cursing himself for failing to cover up his emotions.

"Hey, I'll talk to you later," Pansy called over her shoulder to a bewildered Emma, who shrugged her shoulders. Wheeling around, She muttered "come on!" to Draco as she directed them towards the boy's room. They almost felt the common room start chattering as soon as they were out of sight.

As soon as they closed the door to Draco's empty room, Pansy wheeled on him.

"What in Merlin's name happened to you?"

His mind whirred. He had to think of something to tell her, anything, and the renowned Slytherin silver tongue found only snippets of the truth slipping out. "I was walking back from breakfast in the Great Hall. I was almost to the dorms when someone knocked me over and landed on top of me!"

Pansy winced. "Ooh, I'm so sorry. That must of hurt like I can only imagine!"

"Hmm?" Draco had been lost in thought, remembering the scent from just minutes ago. His memory was so hazy. He didn't understand. All he recalled was that damned red hair, that amazing smell, and something paralyzing his movement.

"Did it hurt?"

Draco shook his head. "Oh, yes." He gave a curt nod. "Of course it did."

Pansy shook her head. "Well, Draco. . . I was just worried."

Draco didn't bother to respond, he was to busy lost in thought. This was not good, not good at all. He had to gain control of himself again. One little bump with the _Weasel_ of all people was not going to throw him off, not a Malfoy. He had to pull himself together.

"Draco?"

"You know what, Pansy? It's nothing. It's an issue not even worth my attention." Draco buffed his nails on his shirt and gazed at them before making eye contact. When he did, Pansy was giving him a raised eyebrow like he had never seen, except perhaps on himself.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I'm positive. I'm sorry I even troubled you with it in the first place."

Pansy nodded her head slowly. "If, if you say so."

"I do," he said curtly. "Just forget about it."

"Well," said Pansy. "I think I'll see myself out."

"Alright." Said Draco. His heart was pounding though, despite his best effort. His body was surely mistaken. He had only encountered the Weasel once so far, and so what if he smelled nice. He had thought Terry smelled nice. That didn't mean anything. Besides, at first, Potter and his pals had the same scent. Maybe it was the same with the Weasley boy. He just didn't spend enough time in the same room with him for the smell to wear off.

Pansy had long left the room. He had moved since. His legs felt a little weak, ever since running back. He couldn't dwell on it. He had to find his mate, and allowing his brain to become confused like his body clearly was, was not a good idea.

Ron was sprawled in the Gryffindor common room, near the fire, with Harry in the chair to his left and Hermione sitting tentatively between his legs, her back against the legs of his chair. Even in September, nights grew cold, as the mist poured over the Scottish countryside. For the last day before classes started, the common room was quiet. A few first and second years hung around in small groups, wide-eyed at an opportunity to sit in the same room as the Golden trio, especially Harry Potter. Ron rolled his eyes.

He absently let a hand fall on Hermione's shoulder. She seemed to acknowledge it without looking up from a giant book in her lap, as usual.

"What, are you studying again?"

She looked up this time, tilting her head back to look into his eyes. "Of course. Arithmancy. My favorite subject."

"Right." He muttered, looking at Harry, though he too had a book in his hands. "You too?" he jeered. "Studying? You've gone over to the dark side, I see."

Harry gave him a wink, before returning to his book. Ron sighed and looked back at the fire. Apparently people weren't in the mood to talk.

Which was fine, he supposed. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk much either. It was just. . . he wanted something to take his mind off the events of earlier. Ever since seeing Malfoy, he had been a little on edge, a little thrown off. It was hard to put a finger on what it was exactly. Maybe it was the stare. Maybe it was the lack of an insult about his father, his family, his hair, or his economic standing. Maybe it was the lack of a remark at all. But whatever it was, that split-second had struck him as worth remembering.

Then there was the fact that Malfoy looked different. Not, "oh I haven't seen you in such a long time, Merlin you look different" different, but "weird" different. Like, "not normal" different. And that bothered him.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was childish to let such a minor event bother him. But there was just something unusual about Malfoy. He bit his lip. He knew he was bound to talk about something that was eating at him, so he might as well bring it up now!

"Do you know of any spells that change people's appearances? You know, permanently?"

Hermione looked up from her book, turned around rather flamboyantly, and simply raised an eyebrow. He quickly got her point.

"Ok. Stupid question." He felt himself blush while she nodded her head. "Well, any curses, I suppose?" But who curses someone to look _better_ than they did before? Not that Malfoy looked good either way. But still.

Hermione looked back at him, with an eyebrow raised yet again. "Are you thinking of anyone in particular?"

"Yeah. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am." He nodded his head pensively. This was going to be uncomfortable. He didn't want his two best mates to think he thought all that much of Malfoy; but then again, this DID seem to warrant mentioning. And Malfoy had been all Harry talked about for most of sixth year. So maybe it was justified. "Have you guys seen Malfoy lately?"

Harry looked up from his book, and nodded. "Yeah, actually, I have." He closed his book in his hands and leaned on the arm of his chair.

"Well," continued Ron. "Did he seem. . . different to you?"

"Come to think of it, he did." Harry said.

Hermione waved her hand somewhat absently. "Oh, let's not start _this_ again. I'm sure you're both imagining things."

"No, no," began Ron. "He definitely looked different. Like, his face was, I dunno, rounder or something."

"Yeah, sort of more soft, kind of."

Hermione gave an exasperated half-chuckle. "Well, maybe he put on some weight."

Ron was leaning forward in his chair, waving his pointed finger at the fire. "No, see, that's the thing. He looked smaller, like he shrank or something."

"Ron, " chided Hermione. "_Everyone_ looks like they've shrunk to you. You're almost as tall as Hagrid nowadays."

Ro felt his cheeks burning. "I am _not!_" He may have been taller, sure, but he wasn't a giant! Merlin. You'd think being six-feet-three was unheard of. "Besides, I just got taller, I didn't go blind!"

"You know, Hermione, I think Ron has a point. We bumped into Malfoy in the Great Hall, and he was acting a bit weird. He kept staring at us. . ."

"He stared at you too?"

"Oh, Merlin help me!" cried Hermione, thrusting her hands up to the ceiling and rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, he stared at me, said hello, and then just walked off. It was a bit uncomfortable, to be honest."

"He didn't even _talk _to me."

"Yeah." Harry nodded again, his glasses glinting in the light of the fire. "You don't suppose something. . . happened to him, over the summer?"

"Happened in what way?" Ron couldn't help but pose the question.

"Have both of you gone completely insane?" Hermione could not have rolled her eyes any harder. "Need I remind you, Malfoy saved all of our lives, when he could have turned us in as who we really were."

"Maybe he just didn't recognize us."

Now even Hermione had shut her book, and had turned around to face them both. "Really, Ron? That's nonsense and you know it. He turned over a new leaf. Harry gave evidence at his trial! You don't really think he's up to something, do you?"

"Just because he did one good thing doesn't mean I have to like the bastard," Ron muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Of course you don't have to _like_ him Ron," she continued. "But at least be civil."

"I _was _civil!" He raised his hands, as if falsely accused. "In fact, I barely said a thing to him! All I mean is that I think something's a little off with Malfoy, that's all."

Harry chuckled. 'Then again, you could argue that something's _always_ been off with that one."

Ron guffawed, and a few tired-looking second years glowered at him. Ron chose to ignore them. Since when did second years have that kind of gumption, to look down at their elders! "You could say that again."

Hermoine pursed her lips and shook her head. "Really, I think you boys are just blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I'm sure when we see him in class, he'll look perfectly normal."

"Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that he didn't look normal before!" Ron mentioned.

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now, when I could be reading my textbook."

Even Ron felt the sting of that comment. "Fine, fine. It's not important anyway."

But as he drifted off to sleep that night, Ron couldn't shake the feeling that something was definitely up. Maybe it was nothing. But Ron had a suspicion that whatever had happened to Malfoy, was not going to leave them in peace. He sighed, for the umpteenth time that night, and stared at the ceiling. "Never a dull moment around here. . ."


End file.
